from Amanda Daloisio

For years the debate has waxed and waned over what constitutes torture and whether or not it is a crime. We have been coaxed into thinking that these are the essential questions, lulled into complacency by the semantic games of powerful people. We have discussed the details of waterboarding and stress positions until they have lost all power to horrify us. We have been lied to by those in power and have not been offended. We have been shown pictures of humiliation and torture and were only momentarily repulsed. Judges have ruled and Congress has balked. All the while, men have sat in prison cells without charge or real hope of trial.

As I write this Christians are in the midst of the Easter season. Holy Week, while behind us, still lingers, perhaps only as the darkness before the dawn. Not unlike our present day, Holy Week is a time of rumors and allegations, of betrayal and fear. The story of the cross is a story of torture and execution. Prior to the suffering, however, we read of the night before. It is on Holy Thursday that Jesus offers us a striking example of discipleship amidst the chaos.

The night before he dies Jesus gathers the disciples. He brings his community in tight, circles them around for some last words, a moment of comfort, a meal that is familiar and familial but darkened with urgency and some very sobering words. I very much desire, Jesus says, to be with you. At the center of it all is the gathering of community. And what lesson does Jesus want his disciples to learn on this, the last night? He kneels down and proceeds to wash the feet of his disciples. It is as much a humble act of service as a call to act with bold compassion, to live without fear or apology for the “fracture of good order”.

It is on this night that we are given the ritual of the eucharist. Jesus takes the bread and the wine and shares them with his friends and calls it his body and blood, given over for them. His life, his teachings, broken and pour out and offered as the ultimate example of Christian practice. And so we are called to do what Jesus taught: to feed the hungry and house the homeless, to proclaim freedom to the imprisoned, and to love our enemies “in remembrance of Me”. I read these words not just as a prescription for what we are to say and do during mass, but as the cry of a man to his disciples to remember him often. As often as we eat and drink. And that is to say daily, even numerous times a day. This is to be our life’s practice: to take the teachings of Jesus, to live them out boldly and with compassion, and to do all of this with our whole selves and for all our days.

April 7th marks the day we remember the birth of Andre Trocme. Robert Ellsberg wrote of Trocme, the protestant pastor of the small French town of Le Chambon, that the “core of his ministry was a literal commitment to the Sermon on the Mount and a conviction that the essence of the gospel lay in the love of God and neighbor.” This was the daily practice of his life, which he worked hard to encourage in his congregation. So ingrained was love of neighbor that, in 1942, as tens of thousands of French Jews were bring rounded up and sent to concentration camps, Le Chambon organized to shelter anyone who came to them. It is estimated that 5,000 Jews were protected from certain death.

What we celebrate in the story of Le Chambon is a community that followed conscience over political rhetoric. Long before the horrific details of the camps were known, there were rumors and whispers, allegations that were denied and swept under the rug. Through the hazy language of war and national security, the people of Le Chambon held on what they knew to be true, the daily practice of love of God and neighbor. They believed that it was better to choose life over death, even in the face of dire consequences. They chose civil disobedience over silence. Can we muster the courage to follow their lead?

Since its inception in 2005, Witness Against Torture has attempted to remain present to the suffering of the men imprisoned at Guantanamo. For the last four months we have hosted over 100 people from around the country in Washington, DC to participate in the 100 Days campaign. We have daily stood vigil outside the White House, silently in orange jumpsuits and black hoods. We have made visits to our representatives. We have paid close attention to the news and listened to lawyers returning from the prison. We have read and reread the names and stories of the prisoners and tried to make our work on their behalf part of our daily practice. But still the prison remains open and there is much to be done if we are to end this particular chapter of shame.

We are Easter people, and so we enter the fray with the conviction that death does not have the last word. As citizens of the United States we have a great responsibility to pay close attention to the actions of our government and to see past the smoke and mirrors that always accompany power. As Christians we have the even greater responsibility of being disciples. Ours must be the daily practice of compassion, the Works of Mercy and the struggle for justice. It is only in the cultivation of these things into a life’s practice that we are molded into people who can respond readily when the need arises. For it is in times of crises that we fall back on what we know. Let us know community and compassion. Let us know courage. Let us act boldly and work to close Guantanamo and end torture.